Objects In The Mirror Are Not What They Appear To Be

We met on a pier. The drama queen in me wants to say it was somewhere between 2 and 3 in the morning under a thundering storm. And that it was freakishly exciting in a very frightening kind of way. But it wasn’t quite the case.

Although it was between 2 and 3, it was in the middle of the afternoon. And under a bright sun, sans lightning. As much as I’d love to say it was one of those creepy piers where unidentified bodies may lie underneath with fingers chopped off – that is not the case either. If any bodies lay underneath that pier, it’s teenaged bodies exploring their sexual sides.

Heck. I even doubt that was happening! No middle of the night encounter. No thunder. No lightning. No dead bodies. No fingers chopped off. No young exploring bodies. Just the sunshine and a pier.

And by pier, ok, that too may be a slight exaggeration. It wasn’t a pier. It wasn’t even a shaky old dock. There wasn’t any water anywhere near where we met, other than the spigot and a tap. There were boats however. If you consider a gravy boat to be a real boat.

Somehow saying we met at Bob’s Big Boy in Barstow where the I-15 meets up with the I-40 just kills the romance. It’s where anticipating gamblers stop on their way to Vegas. Not where two lovers discover each other before spending a lifetime together. But to say we met on a pier? Now there’s a story worth sharing with your grandchildren.

Which of course, we don’t have. Zero grandchildren. How could we? We’re missing the key ingredient – children. And we have no pier in our history. Just Bob’s Big Boy and Barstow. And a gravy boat we hid in our bag to forever remind us of the day we met. But what a story the story could have been if we were still together!

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This is purely fiction – a fun and amusing twist on this week’s Studio 30+ writing prompt: We met on a pier. I took that picture in Santa Monica. Such a cool place to drive by if you have money in your pockets.

You’re so fucking cool, I would have believed anything you wrote anyway. Gravy boats or piers or bodies or chopped off fingers found in gravy boats hidden in the filthy bathroom of a truck stop somewhere near Vegas, written as a poem from the point of view of a toothless waitress who snuck off to the bathroom to inject her last speedball before having to resort to prostitution to afford her next fix…. breathe, breathe, breathe….

About

Once a race car mechanic and roller derby chick now a leadership coach, Marie is unapologetically happy and funky. Her zest for work and life are intrinsically linked. Work or play, she’s a blast to be around. Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows follow her everywhere; it’s no surprise she dreams of running away with the circus and has been writing about her vida loca since 2010 on my cyber house rules.